


designate your love as fate

by elephantastic



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Basira POV, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, although that tag feels almost redundant in this fandom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:00:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23361346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elephantastic/pseuds/elephantastic
Summary: Daisy goes to the Hunt, the world goes to shit, Basira copes.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, background jon/martin - Relationship
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	designate your love as fate

"Basira, when this is over, you need to find me. And kill me. Promise me."

Daisy's perfectly herself until, all of a sudden, she's not. The sight of it tears Basira's bravado apart.

"These last few months, I—it was always borrowed time. Can't outrun it forever."

"Daisy." 

"Promise me." Her voice sounds scraped raw, like the part of her that belongs to the Hunt is already ripping its way out of her throat.

"I promise." The words sting in Basira's mouth.

"Thanks. Now run."

"Daisy." Basira knows what she's just agreed to, the understanding settling around her neck, a thick chain throttling the breath out of her, but she still can't uproot herself from the corner where she's standing, small, helpless and terrified, watching Daisy turn into a monster.

"Run."

More snarl than word, this finally gets Basira moving. She bolts. She's only halfway down the corridor when the room behind her erupts into shouts, gunfire and the sounds of an angry animal in pain. It makes her flinch so hard she nearly trips. 

She hits the stairs down to the tunnels, taking them two or three at a time, swinging herself around corners with a hand on the safety rail so as to not break her momentum, fast as she can so she doesn't have time to think. Nearly there. 

She slams to a stop, coming face to face with Elias as he emerges from the trapdoor. She's got her gun up in perfect form before she's even aware of moving. 

"Ah, Detective. I must congratulate you. Ms Tonner and yourself are continuing to prove exceedingly useful." 

Elias is radiating this grotesque, satiated smugness. It practically drips from his voice when he addresses her.

"Where's Jon?"

"He's gone."

"Where?" The question is expelled from behind Basira’s clenched teeth.

"No need for that tone, Detective. He's gone after Martin, of course. Into the Lonely." He lets his words hit home, but continues without giving Basira a chance to speak. "Oh don't worry, I'm convinced that they'll both come out intact, more or less. A small price to pay, don't you think?"

He's gloating, and Basira doesn't know why. She's missing some important information, some vital thread that he'll no doubt happily use to garrote them in the near future. She needs to get it out of him, but she can barely think straight, let alone play mind games with this slimy bastard. Instead, all she has is the worrying urge to slam her gun into his face as hard and as many times as she can. As if sensing her intent, he sighs and looks at her. 

"None of that, thank you." 

His cold, dead gaze shreds effortlessly through her paper-thin composure, releasing the panic that had been simmering just below the surface and flooding her mind with a tidal wave of _never in the right place at the right time for all my efforts useless always a step behind left Daisy to die not enough never enough long distended grey limbs worthless a guttural snarl and the spray of arterial blood Daisydaisydaisy_. Her every insecurity, failure and fear rear up in a terrible, screaming rush, and she blacks out. 

* * *

Coming to is an unpleasant experience. Elias' mindfuck has left her twitching compulsively, like her body's still trying to protect itself from the aftershocks. Everything hurts, but the back of her head hurts worse. Probably hit it on the way down. Elias is gone. Royally fucked that one up.

She drags her sleeve across her face to get rid of the tears, then she drags the rest of herself to her feet. She's not risking the tunnels if Jon's not even down there anymore. Nothing for it but to turn back. She climbs the stairs a lot slower than she hurtled down them, gun ready, teeth gritted. 

Everything is quiet. The office corridor is undamaged, seems the fight didn't progress past reception. The door to the archives' little lobby is still ajar, but Basira can't bring herself to approach it. There can't be anything good in there. She forces herself to consider the options. Daisy dead. Daisy gone. Daisy alive and mangled, waiting for Basira to come and put her down. She nervously readjusts her grip on her gun and hates the selfish, cowardly voice inside her that's whispering _please, anything but that_.

She pushes the door open.

It's carnage. A disgusting, acrid smell claws into Basira's nostrils as she takes it all in; the splatters of organic matter on the walls, some of it obviously human blood, Not-Them’s remains, even grimmer in death, riddled with bullet holes and marked with deep, horrible gashes, and what looks like—a human arm.

The sound of a crackle in the air behind her cuts through the mounting horror, sending her whirling around with her heart in her mouth.

"Your Daisy ripped that off one of the Hunters. Scared them pretty badly." Helen's voice ripples through the room, chilling and protean. 

"Oh yeah? How badly, exactly?"

Helen laughs, and it prickles over Basira's skin like so many sharp needles.

"Badly enough that they didn't bother to check if the doorway they escaped through had been there when they arrived."

Basira swallows, hard. If Daisy was too far gone she might have thrown herself right in there after them.

"Did you take her, too?"

A tense silence stretches out as Helen considers her. Helen has never taken the same care to appear human as Michael did, which makes her hard to look at directly at the best of times. Now, a greedy gleam sheens over her cruel, hypnotic eyes, and Basira has to fight the urge to take a step back. 

As quickly as it appeared, the hunger seems to recede. Or be reined in. 

"No. That one knew better. What was left of her."

Basira frowns.

"I'd best be going, Detective." She says it like Elias does, like a title.

Basira hears loud voices, the familiar bangs and thumps of a methodical police sweep. In her split second of distraction, Helen vanishes. 

* * *

It's only because she's been paying attention that she catches a glimpse of Jon and Martin lurking on the fringes of the crowd of onlookers that has gathered around the police cordon. 

The junior officer who had been assigned to babysit her got called in to help handle some of the more hysterical witnesses, so Basira's been left to her own devices under a foil blanket, waiting for shock that doesn't seem to want to come. Makes it easy for her slip away, ducking under the police tape and jerking her chin at Jon and Martin to follow. She rounds the first corner she finds and waits for them to catch up.

"Are you guys okay? I saw Elias, he said you'd both gone into the Lonely—"

"Yeah, we're okay. Jon got us out." Martin looks like hell, grey and shaky and washed out. 

"Daisy?" Jon butts in.

"Daisy's gone."

"What does _that_ mean?" 

Basira stifles herself with a short, sharp jerk of her head. He's not pushing to be a dick. He's allowed to care. 

"She gave herself up to—" The words 'the Hunt' get stuck on their way out. Basira doesn't know how much she wants to admit. How much she can, even to herself, before it gets too much. "To fight Not-Them and the two hunters. I went after you. When I got back she was gone. She's hurt."

Martin opens his mouth, but Basira cuts him off.

"About Elias, he's up to something, and this whole police situation is a mess. I don't think you two should be anywhere near the Institute right now. You need to lay low, preferably together."

"Well, obviously." Jon snaps. He pulls Martin closer by their joined hands, staunch and embarrassed about it. Martin looks like he would've blushed if he’d had the blood and wherewithal to do it. 

"We can go to my flat. The Lonely's still all over it, I'd bet. It'll keep us out of sight, more or less."

"No offence, Martin, but that's a shit plan. You've literally just made it out, what if Lukas—"

"I killed him. We don't need to worry about him anymore." 

There's no hint of pride in Jon's voice, just relief. He still looks tired, exhausted even, but his face has lost its gaunt cast. In fact, now that Basira's alert to it, he looks very distinctly fed. And Martin keeps glancing at him, stupid, gore-spattered sweater vest and otherworldly afterglow barely hidden under a hastily requisitioned coat, with this aching, incredulous tenderness; absolutely enamoured with his own personal monster.

Basira feels sick to her stomach with resentment and loathing, prematurely forced to confront a thought that she'd been hoping to keep locked up for later. Much later. Because she, unlike Martin, had been scared of Daisy.

After fighting relentlessly for so long, desperate not to lose herself again, Daisy had surrendered everything just to give Basira a sliver of a fighting chance, and, in the moment where it counted most, Basira had flinched away. Just left her there, without a word—

Love, loss and self-hatred jam themselves up her throat, and suddenly, humiliatingly, she's crying.

"Oh, Basira," Martin reaches out.

"Don't touch me!" 

She feels brutally exposed, wants to compress herself down into the pavement until she finds somewhere private and invisible to scream. She squats, elbows tucked in between her knees, hands clasped over her head, Helen's words circling the inside of her skull like birds of prey. What was left of her. 

_There it is_ , she thinks distantly. She realises she's not even crying anymore, just letting out these tight, pathetic little wheezes, then she's slammed back into the present as her whole chest closes up like a fist.

"I can't breathe. _Ican'tbreathe_." 

"Basira. Basira, I think you're having a panic attack. There's nothing wrong with you physically, you just need to calm down. Can you sit down properly? Being hunched over like that isn't going to help." 

Martin's has hunkered down to her level, his face pale and compassionate as the moon. Basira collapses onto her knees, and tries to give herself some breathing room.

"That's it, you're doing great." 

"Doesn't. Feel. Like it," she grits out between abortive gasps.

"I know, I know. Ok, now I'm going to breathe nice and steady, and you need to try and match me."

She concentrates, willing her diaphragm to fucking cooperate, but feels herself winding tighter and tighter instead.

"Doesn't look like that's working, huh?" 

Basira shakes her head. If she doesn’t get a good breath in soon she’s certain she’s going to pass out, or die, or just explode, splashed across the concrete in a bloody smear. Martin changes tack. 

"I'm so sorry, Basira. I know it’s hard to believe right now, but this isn’t going to last. It’ll pass soon, I promise. It's been a rubbish day, hasn't it? I'll tell you what, though, the Lonely really fucking sucked, but the worst part of _my_ day hands down was being stuck in the tunnels listening to Elias and Peter monologue at each other. Seriously, I hope we've got a tape. It was pathetic. Like I told Peter where he could shove it and he was all, 'Oh no, Martin. How could you do this to me?' Then Elias, looking absolutely demented, like something out of those New Labour, New Danger posters where Tony Blair looks like actual Satan? Yeah. So he stares Peter right in the eyes, and he says: 'He played you like a… Cheap. _Whistle_.' Pause for dramatic effect and everything. He was so scathing about it too, you know. Like he really thought he'd delivered the killing blow. And all I could think was, _Jesus Christ I'm going to die here, or worse, and the last tangible thing I'll have to take with me is this excruciatingly shitty banter_."

Caught up in Martin's light, soothing tone, Basira finds enough air to huff a laugh, and, just like that, her body seems to remember how it all works. Everything begins to ease. She feels limp, her face sticky and too hot.

"There you go. You're all right." 

She gives herself a few hiccuping breaths more, then looks up at Martin. His hands are stuffed up under his armpits, presumably in an effort not to touch her, and he's got some colour back, like he's slowly remembering something fundamental about being human, too. 

"Sounds like a human rights violation to me. You're not supposed to torture your POWs."

Her voice comes out awkward and shaky, but it makes Martin's half-smile turn into something that's almost warm. She reaches out to pat his knee.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome. Need a hand up?"

They stagger to their feet and find themselves hanging on to each other's elbows, not entirely sure who's supporting who. Jon looks twitchy and uncomfortable for a second, not that Basira can blame him, then comes to prop Martin up on his other side.

"Three hot messes, huh." 

That gets a snort from Jon. Basira feels almost back in control as she disentangles herself. 

"Are you coming home with us?" 

"No, I want to stick around a bit longer. They're going to seal the Institute off after tonight and we won't be getting back in any time soon. If I act dumb enough I might get another look in, or some gossip, leads on Daisy. But you guys really need to get out of here. I cannot overstate how bad this looks. Especially for you, Jon."

"Yeah. Not getting off their shitlist any time soon, am I?"

"'Fraid not. Text me the address and I'll come by tomorrow. We can talk it out and make a plan."

Jon nods, but Martin is radiating concern. He looks like he's not quite sure what to do about it, barely holding it together himself and thrown off by the lack of accessible tea-making materials. Basira sighs.

"I'll be fine, honest. I'll go sit back under the blanket and everything."

The words sit in the air between them, weak and unconvincing, but thankfully Jon tugs at Martin a bit, and that's enough. They turn to head off, more or less in sync, still holding onto each other like they’re looking to run the most awkwardly romantic three-legged race in history. 

"Stay safe, Basira,” Martin mumbles over his shoulder.

"Yeah. You too."

**Author's Note:**

> i really thought a six-month hiatus would be enough to get this fic rolling properly, but the show's coming back next week and it's still mostly a jumble of delirious hcs in a google doc. so there's more in the works, but this can also read as a one-shot in case i chicken out once all my ideas get jossed. i just *clenches fist* love basira and want to hear/read more of her.
> 
> [this is what the new labour new danger poster looks like](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_Labour%2c_New_Danger#/media/File:New_Labour_New_Danger.gif). i know people like to hc elias as suave and sexy, but to me he is def tony blair on satanic steroids.


End file.
